Front-line grunt of an undead army

Jon felt nothing else, not for five years. Not since he’d succumbed to the pox and had been buried.

Hindsight showed now that he should’ve asked for his remains to be burnt. Necromancers needed critical mass in order to raise the dead, something one simply couldn’t get from ashes.

Now, Jon’s favorite weapon was fire, so he could keep others from sharing his fate. If only he could choose to wield anything other than his plague-spear. Fire on the battlefield was rare, but he used it when he could.

The boredom was a constant. Undead couldn’t feel pain or hunger, despite what he’d believed about undead eating the living back when he’d been alive. Without physical sensation, life lost so much of its meaning.

And yet, he felt a pervasive terror as he flung himself into battle after battle at the whim of his master. The lack of speech, family, food, and meaning in his life didn’t stop him from wanting to live it. Jon fought with reckless abandon, terrified that he’d be cut down in one as one of the many undead who were left behind each battle.

Warring with it all was desire. Two desires pushed Jon above all. Paradoxically, he desired to die, permanently this time, despite his overwhelming terror at the thought.

But even more than that, Jon desired vengeance on his master. His obedience was tied to the necromancer’s will, and the only way out was to die or kill the necromancer.

If someone else were to slay his master, Jon would be enslaved to them. But we’re he able to commit the foul deed, the necromancer’s power would be his.

For years, Jon had thought this desire to be out of reach. But most undead didn’t survive as long as Jon had. His own power had grown, and several times in the heat of battle he’d thrown off his master’s will.

Jon stared out at the hosts arrayed before him. This battle might be the one that allowed him the proximity and the freedom to do what needed to be done.

Jon ran into the fray, boredom and terror present as always. Desire overpowered them both.